Louisa Rawlings (18 page)

“Just to the west of Montoire.”
 

“With your father, you said. And a mother? Brothers or sisters? Kinfolk?”
 

“No. Only my father.”
 

He turned at that, his eyes warm with understanding. “Why then, you must be very lonely.”
 

His perception took her by surprise. She’d never thought of it before. “Are you lonely here?” she countered.
 

“No. I have my work, and my customers, and the good folk of Selommes. And my books.” He sighed deeply. “And my peace of mind.”
 

She shrugged away the pang of envy. Such a good, simple life. “I have my friends in Montoire and Versailles, as well as our own village. My father is a warm companion, and our home, Sans-Souci, is very dear to me.” She laughed. “Tintin says my ghost will surely haunt its stones after I’m gone!”
 

He stirred the pot in silence for a few moments. “You came a roundabout way if you came from Paris.”
 

She frowned. Orléans and her assignation for Torcy. And the look in Arsène’s eyes through that dreadful carriage ride. Sitting here in this pleasant room, with the soup beginning to bubble merrily over the singing fire, she had almost forgotten her cares. “I came by way of Orléans.”
 

The miller straightened and stepped back from the fire. “With that villain?” he growled.
 

“I would prefer you not to speak of Monsieur de Falconet in that tone of voice,” she snapped. “Have you forgot so soon that I intend to become Madame la Comtesse de Falconet, if Arsène will still have me?”
 

“He’s prosperous, of course.” It was scarcely a question.
 

“Of course. He has a château near Tours, I am given to understand. And a fine
hôtel
in the town of Versailles.”
 

“You go often to the palace of Versailles?”
 

“Yes. In the last two years. To be with Tintin.”
 

“And…Arsène? Is he there often as well?”
 

“Such a searching catechism.” She meant it as a reproof, but he ignored it, waiting in silence for her reply. “I’ve only just met Monsieur de Falconet,” she volunteered at last.
 

He looked down at her and smiled, but his eyes were hard. “But it’s not too soon to set your cap for Monsieur de Falconet,
n’est-ce pas
?
A fine match, I think you said. Perhaps you meant a fine
catch.
More able to keep you in silken gowns than your…Tintin. And then, of course, if you stay at Versailles, no one will notice merely another deceitful coquette who neglects her marriage vows while enjoying the pleasures of the court.”
 

Rouge found herself shaking with fury. “Now, by heaven,” she hissed, “if you say another word, I swear to you I’ll cut out your black heart! You know nothing of me or my life! By what right do you presume to judge me?” Angrily she rose and crossed to the open door, staring out at the setting sun.
 

A cold silence filled the room. At length, LeBrun strode to her where she stood. Despite her muttered protest, he turned her to face him. His green eyes were soft in the twilight. “Come back and sit down,” he said. “I had no right to speak that way. You have your life, as I have mine. Who can say which one of us has chosen wisely?”
 

Reluctantly she regained her seat, watching in sullen silence while he fetched from the cupboard a well-used skillet, a dish of salt, and a small crock of lard. He placed them on the hearth, then returned to the table for the bucket of fish. He set the skillet on a tripod over the coals and measured out a large dollop of lard with a fork that hung in the fireplace. He glanced at Rouge over his shoulder. “Pouting doesn’t suit you. I give you leave to subject me to the same searching catechism.”
 

Ah, well! she thought. His words were all the apology she was likely to get! She managed a small smile. “Perhaps I’ll make you squirm in
your
turn, Monsieur LeBrun.”
 

“If we’re to be together for the better part of a month, you must call me Pierre. I swear I’ll not answer to Monsieur LeBrun.”
 

“Very well. Pierre.”
 

“And you. Shall I call you Mademoiselle de Tournières? Or Marie-Rouge…as he does? Your hotheaded suitor?”
 

She ignored that. “I’m simply Rouge to all.”
 

“Including your Tintin?”
 

“Yes. It’s what I prefer.”
 

He turned to her, his eyes thoughtful as they searched her face. “’Twas a mistake to name you Rouge. Rouge is pink and rosy. They should have called you
Argentée
, for the silver that shimmers in your lovely hair, and the pale sparkle of your gray eyes.” He nodded. “Yes. Argentée. A beautiful, silvery treasure, more precious than the king’s gold.”
 

She shivered at the soft caress of his words, then cursed herself for an idiot. He was clearly teasing her, mocking the poetic and false compliments of a courtier! She smiled scornfully. “Save your witless flattery for a country milkmaid. She, at least, might believe you!”
 

He laughed aloud at that, throwing his head back in delight. “Touché! Well, then, Rouge. Have at me with your questions.”
 

“Do you own the mill…Pierre?”
 

“No. It belongs to the priory of St. Estephe, in Selommes. I have a three-year lease—and fishing rights—with another year to go.”
 

“But you’ll renew, of course.”
 

“
Qui sait?
Perhaps I’ll try something else. I’ve done better with my life.”
 

She looked at him in surprise. “I should have thought, with your facility, that you were born to milling.”
 

“No. I was a soldier in my younger days.”
 

She smiled wickedly. “Your ‘younger’ days? How old are you?”
 

He shook his head and grinned. “Not only searching, but shameless! A bold question. I’m twenty-nine. How old are you?”
 

“No. This is
my
examination.”
 

He allowed his eyes to assess her thoroughly. “Eighteen.”
 

“
Nineteen.
But I’ve not finished with you. You’re here in the mill alone?”
 

The lard in the skillet had begun to smoke. LeBrun tossed in the fish, cursing softly as the hot fat sizzled and splashed his fingers. “It may be to
your
advantage to have a spouse. Not mine.” He gave the skillet a shake, sprinkled on a bit of salt, then seated himself on the stool while the fish cooked. His eyes were filled with laughter. “I find that women are more eager to please a bachelor.”
 

“Crowing rooster,” she snorted. “Your traffic with women is scantly
my
concern! I meant only to ask if no one helps you.”
 

The laughter in his eyes had become a devilish glint. “I knew precisely what you meant,” he drawled. “As to your question, I learned my craft from the old miller who rented before me. The poor man was going blind.”
 

“Alas! And now? The old miller, I mean.”
 

“He and his wife moved away to Chartres. With a small pension from some nobleman he served.”
 

“And no one helps you? Nor tends your cottage?”
 

“While the old man had his sight, he was my
gardemoulin
, my day worker, as I had been his at first. Though I manage very well now without him.” LeBrun indicated the room. “I miss his wife, however. When he still came to help, she came as well, to cook and mend and clean. But now…” He shrugged.
 

Rouge widened her eyes in innocent surprise. “Truly? From the look of this room, I should have guessed that half the chambermaids of Versailles came regularly to clean!”
 

He looked uncomfortable. “You
will
have your revenge.”
 

“But if the old miller’s wife no longer serves you, for whom was the basket of mending intended? Or do soldiers learn those skills of necessity? Along with swearing and bragging?”
 

He winced. “Again the attack. Perhaps I shouldn’t answer. You might not like my response!” He leaned forward, turned the fish in the skillet, then sat back again, meeting her steady gaze with his own. “You’re a transparent glass,” he said at last. “Your eyes betray you. Well then, what do you see?”
 

With a start, she realized that she had been studying his face intently. He was really extraordinarily handsome, with his deep-set green eyes, the strong jaw, the finely chiseled nose. The eyebrows that arched in amusement and the smile that played around his firm mouth.
Dieu!
she thought, seeing that mouth, remembering his kiss.
Can
he guess what I’m thinking? Embarrassed, she turned her head away.
 

He laughed softly. “Quite so. I’m reasonably young, reasonably good-looking. Sound of mind and limb. A miller is a good catch, at least to a country maid. And even country
wives
have their…needs. The merchants of Selommes come here with their wives and daughters. The daughters flirt, hoping for a marriage proposal. And the wives bring baskets of food, sweep my floors, do my mending from time to time.” He smirked in satisfaction. “Hoping, perhaps, for something else.”
 

Rouge felt an irrational twinge of jealousy. “And do you oblige them?”
 

“From time to time. I have my needs as well.”
 

“Now, monsieur,” she said coldly, “perhaps you can tell me the difference between a
coq du village
, who uses women to his advantage, and a coquette at Versailles!”
 

He smiled sheepishly and scratched the end of his nose with his thumb. “Thanks be to God you weren’t born a man. You would have challenged—and run through!—every adversary in your path.” He held out his hand. “Shall we have a truce?”
 

“Indeed.” She proffered her own hand.
 

He clasped her fingers in a firm handshake, then turned her hand over, examining it, studying it. “Such a small hand. Such a contradiction,” he said softly. “Sharp-tongued, you joust with me tonight. Yet only this morning your tears could have broken a strong man’s heart.”
 

Sweet heaven, she thought. What was there about the man, about the way he looked at her, touched her fingers, that made her feel breathless and lightheaded? She wondered if he felt the same sensations.
 

And then he laughed, a harsh sound deep in his throat, and released her hand. “But, of course, that softness is part of a coquette’s art,
n’est-ce pas
? All the little artificial ways with which she works herself into a man’s soul. No, mademoiselle. I don’t apologize for my ways. A country cock-of-the-walk can’t begin to match a coquette’s skill, all her charming beguilements.”
 

They came from two different worlds. She was a fool. “Rest content, monsieur,” she said sharply. “Your soul is safe from me. I’ll not weep again. Not one tear. I…” She stopped and sniffed the air. “Mother of God! Your fish is burning!”
 

“Merde!”
he swore. He reached for the skillet, then cursed again as the handle burned his fingers.
 

Rouge suppressed a giggle. She took the fork from him. “Perhaps you need a wife after all. Bring me a platter. And a knife.” While she laid the fish on the plate and attempted to scrape away the burned parts, the miller set the pot of soup on the table, put out dishes and utensils, and fetched half a loaf of bread from the cupboard. The room was growing quite dim. LeBrun closed the door, then picked up a wisp of straw from the rushes that covered the floor, touched it to an ember in the fireplace, and lit several candles in the room. In the warm glow of the candlelight they sat down at table together, murmured the blessing, crossed themselves. Rouge allowed the miller to ladle out soup for them both, then picked up her spoon. They ate in silence: the soup, the bread, what remained of the burned fish. There was even a small jug of ale.
 

At last, sated, Rouge sighed and put down her empty goblet. “
Mon Dieu
,
but that was good.” She smiled an apology. “You really are a wretched cook, however.”
 

He frowned. “The fish was burned. Your chattering distracted me.”
 

“I meant the soup,” she said gently.
 

“It didn’t seem to stop you from eating!”
 

She bristled. “I have a healthy appetite! And I’ve scarcely eaten for two days! But I
do
have my standards. If I’m to stay here, and keep from starving, I think I had better do the cooking henceforth. Have you no pot herbs in your garden? A turnip or two left from the winter? A bit of salted pork in your larder? Well, I’ll see for myself in the morning,” she said crisply, as he sat speechless. “And you might ask your charming…paramours to bring you a sausage or a cheese now and again.”